Well, the moment he stepped out on his front porch he knew there was something amiss. The motor was running, but the garage was dark. He got closer to the garage and he looked in a window—the one in the west wall of the garage—and all he could see was the car. The dash lights were the only lights in the whole garage that were burning. He thought it best to go tell Mr. English that he had left his motor running and to warn him against staying in the garage any length of time. Mr. Harley of course knew the danger of carbon monoxide and had known one or two cases of carbon monoxide poisoning in his engineering experience. He went up and rang the bell of the English home, then he opened the door and called out, but there was no answer from anyone. Then he ran as fast as he could back to the garage. He opened the big door and the windows so as to create a draft, and then he opened the front door of the car, and there was Mr. English.
He was lying sort of slumped down on the seat, half of his body almost off the seat. Mr. Harley had a little trouble, as Mr. English was not a small man, but finally he got him and carried him, fireman-fashion, out of the garage and laid him down on the drive-way. He felt Mr. English’s heart and there were no beats, and he felt his pulse, and there was no pulse. He tried giving him artificial respiration, because he knew the value of artificial respiration in such cases, and he yelled as loud as he could to his wife, and when Mrs. Harley stuck her head out the bedroom window he told her to call Dr. English.
He continued giving artificial respiration until Dr. English came, but Dr. English examined his son and pronounced him dead. They carried the body inside the house and then Dr. English thanked Mr. Harley and Mr. Harley went back to quiet Mrs. Harley, who by that time was almost out of her wits, with not knowing what it was all about.
As nearly as Mr. Harley recalled, Mr. English was attired in dark gray trousers, white shirt without a tie, black shoes. There was a strong odor of whiskey about his person. His eyes were open and his face was pinkish, or, rather, pallid with a pinkish tinge. Mr. Harley asked permission to add that in his opinion, judging by the position of the body and what he knew about such cases, Mr. English may have wanted to commit suicide when he first got in the car, but that he had changed his mind just before becoming unconscious, but had not had the strength to get out of the car.
Well, that did not alter the main fact, in the opinion of Dr. Moskowitz. All they had to go on proved pretty conclusively that deceased had taken his own life, no matter what else might have been in his mind. The jury returned a verdict to that effect.
Dr. English thought it best not to try to influence the verdict of the jury. In this case let the little kike quack Moskowitz have his revenge, which Dr. English knew Moskowitz was doing. Dr. English knew Moskowitz loved every bit of testimony that pointed toward suicide, for it gave Moskowitz a chance he had wanted ever since the time Dr. English had given a dinner to the County Medical Society and failed to invite Moskowitz. Dr. English thought he had good reason: the dinner was at the country club, and Jews were not admitted to the club, so Dr. English could not see why he should violate the spirit of the club rule by having a Jew there as his guest. Anyway he despised Moskowitz because Moskowitz once had said to him: “But, my dear Doctor, surely you know the oath of Hippocrates is a lot of crap. I’ll bet your own wife uses a pessary. Or did. Mine always has, and still does.”…Let Moskowitz have his revenge; Dr. English would have something to say hereafter about the deputy coronerships. Without that Moskowitz could not live.
Dr. English thought of himself as crushed by Julian’s death. He knew people would understand that; crushed. His wife, on the other hand, was a little silly, bewildered. She cried, but he did not think he heard pain in her cry. He thought he might expect a nervous breakdown when the enormity of her grief touched her, and he began immediately to plan something, say a Mediterranean cruise, which they could take together as soon as Julian’s affairs were settled. Julian had been dead only twelve hours when the thought first entered the doctor’s head, but it was well to have something ahead to look forward to when a sad loss crushed you. He would recommend the same thing to Mrs. Walker, and at least offer to pay Caroline’s share of the trip. Not that Mrs. Walker needed it or would accept it, but he would make the offer.
Dr. English was not afraid of what he knew people were saying—people with long memories. He knew they were recalling the death of Julian’s grandfather. But inevitably they would see how the suicide strain had skipped one generation to come out in the next. So long as they saw that it was all right. You had to expect things.
It was a lively, jesting grief, sprightly and pricking and laughing, to make you shudder and shiver up to the point of giving way completely. Then it would become a long black tunnel; a tunnel you had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. No whistle. But had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. Whistle? Had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. No whistle? Had to go through, had to go through, had to go through.
“Caroline dear, please take this. Sleep will do you good,” her mother said.
“Mother darling, I’m perfectly all right. I don’t want anything to make me sleep. I’ll sleep tonight.”
“But Dr. English gave me this to give to you, and I think you ought to get some sleep. You haven’t slept a wink since one o’clock this morning.”
“Yes, I did. I slept a little.”
“No, you didn’t. Not a real sleep.”
“But I don’t want to sleep now. Specially.”
“Oh, dear, what am I going to do with you?” said Mrs. Walker.
“Poor Mother,” said Caroline, and she held out her arms to her mother. She was sorry for her mother, who had no great grief in this, but only sadness that was stirred by her own grief. She was just sort of on-call, ready to supply sadness which made her eligible actively to share Caroline’s grief.
She tried, that first day, not to think about Julian but what on earth else was there to think about? She would think back to the early morning, when her mother came in her old room and told her Julian’s father was downstairs and wanted to see her. Sometimes when she thought about it she would say, “I knew it right away. I got it immediately,” but again she would be honest and accuse herself, for she had not got it right away. That there was something wrong she knew, but the truth was she was on the verge of refusing to go downstairs. She knew it concerned Julian, and she did not want to hear more of him, but her intelligence and not her instinct pointed out to her lying in her warm, sweet bed that Julian’s father was the last man in the world to wake you up at that hour of the night—one o’clock in the morning, almost—without some good reason. He said he had terrible news for her—and it was just like prefacing a story with “this is the funniest thing you ever heard,” or “this will kill you.” Nothing Dr. English could say could come up to his prefatory words. But he was a considerate man; he told it all at once and did not wait to be asked questions. “Mr. Harley found Julian lying in the car, in the garage, and he was dead then, although Mr. Harley didn’t know it at the time. He died of carbon monoxide, a poison gas that comes out of a car. The motor was running.” Then, after a pause. “Caroline, it looks like suicide. You didn’t get any note or anything like that, did you?”
“God, no! Don’t you suppose I’d be up there now if I did?”